The days at the Royal Literature Academy began to settle into a rhythm for me—ink, paper, thought, and expression. Each sunrise brought new words, each sunset a fresh paragraph in the story I was silently crafting with my life.
After becoming the Class IV Representative, my presence drew attention like ink on snow. Some of the students admired me; others barely hid their envy. But I didn't care. I was there to write.
I attended lessons with growing eagerness, drinking in knowledge as though every word would nourish my soul. From poetry to myth-building, historical storytelling to abstract metaphors—everything thrilled me. But my true delight was in the silence between lessons, when I could scribble on pages in solitude, letting my imagination loose.
But not everyone was pleased with my appointment.
One crisp morning, as I entered the academy's eastern courtyard—a wide space paved with polished marble and flanked by ivory pillars—I was met with a crowd. Students from several other classes had gathered, and murmurs buzzed in the air.
At the center of it all stood Fenric Elowen.
With a smirk, he called out, "Ah, if it isn't our prodigious quill-wielder—Ethan Verne."
I paused, raising an eyebrow. "Good morning, Fenric."
"Good indeed. Word travels fast. Some of the upper classes don't believe a child from the outer wards—no offense—can hold his title fairly. So we've arranged a little contest."
A girl from Class III stepped forward. "We call it 'The Challenge of Ink.' A friendly competition between classes. Just to see if our beloved professor's faith in you is well-placed."
Behind them, I noticed Lady Anvery among the crowd, watching silently.
"And if I decline?" I asked.
Fenric's smile widened. "Then rumors will say the Class Rep has no spine. Surely that wouldn't be good for morale?"
The words were sharp, but I knew what they really meant. They couldn't accept that I'd taken a place meant for someone else in their eyes.
Before I could speak, a familiar voice rang out—firm and elegant.
"Then let the challenge be fair and witnessed."
Professor Lysandra stepped through the gathering crowd. Her silver-inked robe flowed behind her, and her eyes, as sharp as a hawk's, scanned the students.
"You've challenged Ethan Verne?" she said, arms crossed. "Then I shall be the judge."
Gasps rose among the students. Even Fenric's smirk faltered slightly.
"Three classes," she continued. "Three representatives. One prompt. One hour."
A long desk was brought out. Parchment, ink, and quills laid upon it. I walked forward and took my seat. Two others followed—Fenric from Class III, and a girl named Lyselle from Class II, known for her lyrical writing.
The professor waved a hand, and words shimmered into the air above us.
Prompt: A World with No Sound.
A hush fell. The clock began to tick.
I didn't move.
Not because I didn't know what to write.
But because I was overwhelmed with ideas.
My fingers trembled before touching the quill. Then… they flew.
I imagined a boy born into a world where silence was eternal. Where every footstep was seen but never heard. Where war drums were only feared because of their sight, not their sound. Where love was shown through ink and parchment. Where poetry was the only voice that carried meaning.
My hand did not stop. The world spilled onto the paper.
When the hour ended, Professor Lysandra collected the sheets herself. She read aloud from each entry.
Fenric's piece was clever, technical—he described the pain of silence, the strategic disadvantages of soundless warfare.
Lyselle's was poetic—she wrote of a dancer who could no longer hear the music and instead taught herself to feel rhythm through the beat of her heart.
Then came mine.
As the professor read my piece aloud, the courtyard fell silent.
Not a sound—save her voice.
Eyes widened. Even Fenric blinked.
She finished the last line, looked at the crowd, and spoke: "By creativity, emotional weight, and use of theme—Ethan Verne's writing surpasses the others today."
Gasps turned to applause.
Lady Anvery clapped gently. Some of the nobility nodded in approval.
Fenric looked away.
But I wasn't watching him.
I was just… smiling. Because I had created something again. Something real.
Professor Lysandra looked at me and nodded.
"Today, you've proven not just that you belong here, Ethan Verne. But that you may one day lead the literary world of this kingdom."
The cheers faded, replaced by a heavy stillness in the courtyard. Even as the applause for my victory echoed in my ears, I could feel it—that lingering resistance, the weight of pride too stubborn to break.
Fenric Elowen stood with his arms crossed, jaw clenched. Beside him, Lyselle bit her lower lip, brows furrowed. Their faces didn't show anger, but something worse—unwilling acknowledgment. The kind that comes when the truth gnaws at your pride.
"I want to read it," Fenric finally said, voice low.
Professor Lysandra raised an eyebrow. "You just heard it read aloud."
He shook his head. "No. I want to read his words myself."
Lyselle nodded. "So do I."
There was something humbling in their tone—not sarcasm, not spite, but a reluctant honesty. I hesitated but nodded and handed over my handwritten pages. The ink was still fresh in places.
They took the pages carefully, as if they were something fragile. The crowd, now hushed, watched as they sat at a nearby bench, eyes tracing every word.
They read in silence. Not a breath stirred in the courtyard.
I stood nearby, pretending not to watch, but my eyes flicked to their expressions. With each line, their gazes shifted—curiosity turning to awe, resistance melting into wonder.
And in that moment, I saw them not as rivals—but as readers.
Lyselle gasped softly when she reached a particular passage, mouthing the words to herself. Fenric's hands, which once gripped the pages stiffly, now softened, his shoulders drooping as though each sentence carried the weight of understanding.
Then… they reached the excerpt.
Excerpt from "A World with No Sound" by Ethan Verne:
"In a world without sound, love was never spoken. It was written on the back of leaves, carved into bark, folded into paper cranes that fluttered into the hands of those who needed them most.
The boy, born deaf to the world's missing melody, found solace in stories. He did not speak, for no one knew how. Instead, he wrote to the sky—hoping the stars could read.
One day, he met another who wrote not with ink, but with glances, gestures, and the tremble of fingertips. They built a language together—one no one else understood, but which said everything.
And when they cried, it wasn't for sorrow. It was because they had finally heard each other… in silence."
By the end, Fenric placed the pages down gently. He stared at them, then looked up—directly at me.
"I…" He swallowed, unable to meet my gaze again. "I didn't think you were more than just a lucky name."
Lyselle folded her hands over the last page, her voice quiet. "But you've written silence so loud, it echoes in my chest."
The students nearby looked on, stunned by the unexpected humility from the two most vocal doubters in the academy.
Finally, Fenric stood, walked toward me, and gave a curt nod.
"I accept the loss," he said. "And your place at this academy."
I blinked, surprised by the sincerity.
"Thank you," I said simply.
Professor Lysandra smiled, her arms folded behind her back, eyes glinting with approval. "That is what literature does—it silences arrogance not with anger, but with understanding."
And just like that, the courtyard—once thick with rivalry—felt a little warmer.
The other students began to murmur with curiosity and interest—not just about me, but about the story. Some approached to ask about where they could read more, others whispered of future contests.
But for me, the greatest reward wasn't the applause or the recognition.
It was the look in their eyes after they read my story.
It was the silence that followed.
A silence louder than words.